1 The next morning Miss Hamilton
came down dressed in her riding gear, to find her host already in the saddle
and armed with a stout hunting crop, which he flourished emphatically as
he gave some directions to his groom. The day was fine and clear after
a rainy night, with a hearty fragrance of the showery summer fields blowing
through the Bristol streets.

2 They were quick outside the
town on the road to Bath. Mary found herself well mounted, though a little
too safely for her liking. Her horse was heavy of build, being used to
the burden of a somewhat ponderous master; but the lighter weight and easy
prompting hand of a young girl soon made him like a brave colt again.

2A The old merchant looked on
with approval at such pretty skill and acquaintance with horsemanship as
his companion showed at the outset of their journey; and presently, when
both the good horses had finished their discreet frolic and settled to
sober travel, he fell into easy discourse, and showed the fair rider all
the varied interests of the way. It was a busy thoroughfare, and this honored
citizen was smiled at and handsomely saluted by many acquaintances, noble
and humble. Mr. Davis was stingy of holidays, even in these dull times,
but all the gallantry he had ever possessed was glowing in his heart as
he rode soberly along in such pleasant company.

3 The dreary suspense and anxiety
of six long weeks at sea were like a half-forgotten dream in the girl's
own mind; at last she could set forth about her business. The sorrows of
seafaring were now at an end; she was in England at last, and the very
heart of the mother country seemed to welcome her; yet a young heart like
Mary Hamilton's must needs feel a twinge of pain at the height of her morning's
happiness. The fields and hedges, the bright foxglove and green ivy, the
larks and blackbirds and quiet robins, the soft air against her cheeks,
-- each called up some far-inherited memory, some instinct of old relationship.
All her elders in Berwick still called England home, and her thrilled heart
had come to know the reason why.

4 Roger Wallingford had been in
England. She suddenly understood this new reason why he could find it so
hard to go to sea in the Ranger to attack these shores, and why he had
always protested against taking part in the war. England was no longer
an angry, contemptuous enemy, tyrannous and exacting, and determined to
withhold the right of liberty from her own growing colonies. All those
sad, unwelcome prejudices faded away, and Mary could only see white clouds
in a soft sky above the hazy distance, and hear the English birds singing,
and meet the honest English faces, like old friends, as she rode along
the road. There was some witchery that bewildered her; 't was like some
angry quarrel sprung up between mother and child while they were at a distance
from each other, that must be quick forgotten when they came face to face.
There was indeed some magic touch upon her: the girl's heart was beating
fast; she was half afraid that she had misunderstood everything in blaming
old England so much, and even stole a quick glance at her companion to
see if he could have guessed her strange thoughts.

5 "'T is a pretty morning," said
Mr. Davis kindly, seeing that she looked his way. "We shall reach Bath
in proper season," and he let his horse come to a slow walk.

6 Whether it was the fresh air
of the summer day, very strengthening to one who had been long at sea,
or whether it was the justice of their errand itself, the weakness of this
happy moment quickly passed, and Miss Hamilton's hand eagerly sought for
a packet in the bosom of her gown, to see if it were safe. The reason for
being on this side the sea was the hope that an anxious errand could be
well done. She thought now of Master Sullivan on his bleak New England
hillside; of the far blue mountains of the north country, and the outlook
that was clearer and wider than this hazy landscape along the Avon; she
looked down at the tame English river, and only remembered the wide stream
at home that ran from the mountains straight to sea, -- how it roared and
droned over the great rocky fall near the master's own house, and sounded
like the calling sea itself in his ears.

7 "You may see Bath now, there
in the valley," said Mr. Davis, pointing with his big hand and the hunting
crop. "'T is as fine a ride from Bristol to Bath as any you may have in
England." They stopped their horses, a little short of breath, and looked
down the rich wooded country to the bright town below.

8 "'T is a fine ride indeed,"
said Mary, patting her horse's neck, and thinking, with uncontrollable
wistfulness, of the slenderer and less discreet young Duke at home, and
of the old coachman and his black helpers as they always stood by the stable,
eager to watch her, with loud cautions, as she rode away. 'T was a sharp
touch of homesickness, and she turned her head so that she could hide her
face from sight.

9 "I'll change with you, my dear,
as we ride toward home; I see you are so competent a rider," offered Mr.
Davis heartily. "Lightfoot is a steady beast, though I must own you found
him otherwise this morning; this chestnut is younger and freer-gaited."
He had a strange sense, as he spoke, that Mary was no longer in good spirits.
Perhaps the heavy horse had tired her strength, though Lightfoot was as
good a creature as any in Bristol, and much admired for his noble appearance.

10 Mary eagerly protested, and
patted the old horse with still greater friendliness and approval as they
went riding on toward the town. The alderman sighed at the very sight of
her youth and freshness; 't would be pleasant to have such a daughter for
his own. A man likes young company as he grows older; though the alderman
might be growing clumsy on his own legs, the good horse under him made
him feel like a lad of twenty. 'T was a fine day to ride out from Bristol,
and the weather of the best. Mr. Davis began to mind him of an errand of
business to Westbury on Trym, beyond the Clifton Downs, where, on the morrow,
he could show Miss Hamilton still finer prospects than these.

11 They stopped at last before
a handsome lodging in the middle of the town of Bath. Mr. George Fairfax
was a Virginian, of old Lord Bryan Fairfax's near kindred, a man of great
wealth, and a hearty Loyalist; his mother, a Cary of Hampton, had been
well known to Madam Wallingford in their early years. He was at home this
day, and came out at once to receive his guests with fine hospitality,
being on excellent terms of friendship with the old merchant. They greeted
each other with great respect before Miss Hamilton's presence was explained;
and then Mr. Fairfax's smiling face was at once clouded. He had been the
hope and stay of so many distressed persons, in these anxious days of war,
that he could only sigh as he listened. It was evident enough that, however
charming this new sufferer and applicant might be, their host could but
regret her errand. Yet one might well take pleasure in her lovely face,
even if she must be disappointed, as most ladies were, in the hope of receiving
an instant and ample pension from the ministers of his Majesty George the
Third.

12 Mr. Fairfax, with great courtesy,
began to say something of his regrets and fears.

13 "But we do not ask for these
kind favors," Mary interrupted him, with gentle dignity. "You mistake our
present errand, sir. Madam Wallingford is in no need of such assistance.
We are provided with what money we are like to need, as our good friend
here must already know. The people at home" -- and she faltered for a moment
before she could go on. "It was indeed thought best that Madam Wallingford
should be absent for a time; but she was glad to come hither for her son's
sake, who is in prison. We have come but to find him and to set him free,
and we ask for your advice and help. Here is her letter," and Miss Hamilton
hesitated and blushed with what seemed to both the gentlemen a most pretty
confusion. "I ought to tell you, Mr. Fairfax -- I think you should know,
sir, that I am of the Patriots. My brother was with General Washington,
with his own regiment, when I left home."

14 Mr. George Fairfax bowed ceremoniously,
but his eyes twinkled a little, and he took refuge in reading the letter.
This was evidently an interesting case, but not without its difficulties.

15 "The young gentleman in question
also appears to be a Patriot," he said seriously, as he looked up at Mr.
Davis. "In Miss Hamilton's presence I may drop our usual term of 'rebel.'
Madam Wallingford professes herself unshaken in her hereditary allegiance
to the Crown; but as for this young officer, her son, I am astonished to
find that he has been on board the Ranger with that Paul Jones who is the
terror of our ports now, and the chief pest and scourge of our commerce
here in England. 'T is a distressed parent indeed!"

16 "You have the right of it,"
said the old British merchant, with great eagerness and reproach. Mr. Davis
was not a man who found it easy to take the humorous point of view. "It
seems that he was left ashore, that night of the attack upon Whitehaven,
in the north, which you will well remember. He was caught by the town guard.
You know we captured one of the Ranger's men? 'T was this same young officer,
and, though badly wounded, he was ordered to the Mill Prison, and is said
to have arrived in a dying state. For his mother's sake (and her face would
distress any man's heart), I try to believe that he is yet alive and lies
there in the jail; but 't is a sorry place of correction that he has come
to through his own foolishness. They say he is like to have been hanged
already."

17 "Good God! what a melancholy
story, and all England thinking that he deserves his fate!" exclaimed Fairfax.
"I cannot see how anything can be done."

18 "There is but one gleam of
hope," said Mr. Davis, who had not sat among the Bristol magistrates in
vain. He spoke pompously, but with some kindness for Miss Hamilton, who
was listening sadly enough, the eager bravery of her face all gone; their
last words had been very hard to bear. "There is one thing to add. The
story reached America, before these good friends left, that young Mr. Wallingford
was suspected by many persons on board the Ranger of still holding to his
early Loyalist principles. They openly accused him of an effort to betray
the ship into our hands. If this is true" --

19 "It is not true!" interrupted
Miss Hamilton, and both the gentlemen looked a little startled. "No, it
is not true," she repeated, more calmly. "It is not a proper plea to make,
if he should never be set free."

20 "We must think of his mother;
we are only reviewing the situation in our own fashion," said the elder
man, frowning a stern rebuke at her. But she would have her own way.

21 "Mr. Davis has been very kind
in the matter," she continued. "When we were speaking together, last night,
he told me that Lord Mount Edgecumbe was now in Bath, and would have great
influence about the American prisoners."

22 "That is true," said Mr. Fairfax
politely; "but I do not possess the honor of his lordship's acquaintance,
and I fear that I have no means of reaching him. He is in bad health, and
but lately arrived in Bath to take the waters."

23 "Miss Hamilton has brought
letters" --

24 "I have some letters, given
me by an old friend at home," acknowledged Mary. "He was very sure that
they would be of use to us. Do you happen to know anything of Lord Newburgh,
sir, and where he may be found?"

25 "Lord Newburgh?" repeated the
Virginian eagerly, with a quick shake of his head and a sudden frown, though
there was again a twinkle of merriment in his eyes. Mary's best hopes suddenly
fell to the ground. She was aware as she had not been before upon how slight
a foundation these best hopes might have been built. She had always looked
up to Master Sullivan with veneration; the mystery of his presence was
like an enchantment to those who knew him best. But he had been a long
lifetime in America; he might have written his letters to dead men only;
they might be worth no more than those withered oak leaves of last year
that were fluttering on the hedges, pierced by a new growth.

26 There was a pause. Mr. Fairfax's
face seemed full of pity. Miss Hamilton began to resent his open show of
sympathy.

27 "I am strangely inhospitable!"
he exclaimed. "We were so quick at our business that I forgot to offer
you anything, sir, and you, Miss Hamilton, after your morning's ride! No,
no, it is no trouble. You will excuse me for a moment? I am like to forget
my good bringing up in Virginia, and my lady is just now absent from home."

28 Mr. Fairfax quickly left the
room. The alderman sat there speechless, but looking satisfied and complacent.
It certainly did make a man thirsty to ride abroad on a sunshiny morning,
and his ears were sharp-set for the comfortable clink of glasses. The heavy
tray presently arrived, and was put near him on a card table, and the old
butler, with his pleasant Virginian speech, was eager in the discharge
of hospitality; Mr. Fairfax being still absent, and Mary quite at the end
of her courage. She could not take the cool draught which old Peter offered
her with respectful entreaties, as if he were Cæsar, their own old
slave; she tried to look at the hunting pictures on the wall, but they
blurred strangely, -- there was something the matter with her eyes.

29 "What noble Jamaica spirits!"
said Mr. John Davis, looking at the ceiling as his glass was being replenished.
"Did your master grow these lemons on his own plantations in Virginia?
They are of a wondrous freshness," he added politely, to repeat his approval
of such an entertainment. "Miss Hamilton, my dear, you forget we must take
the long ride back to Bristol. I fear you make a great mistake to refuse
any refreshment at our good Peter's hands."

30 The door was opened wide, and
Mr. Fairfax made a handsome, middle-aged gentleman precede him into the
room.

31 "I was afraid that I should
miss this noble friend," he said gayly; "he might have been taking advantage
of so fine a morning, like yourselves. Here is my Lord Newburgh, Miss Hamilton;
this is Lord Newburgh himself for you! You may have heard of Mr. Alderman
Davis, of Bristol, my lord? I have told you already that Miss Hamilton
brings you a letter, and that she hopes for your interest with my Lord
Mount Edgecumbe. My dear Miss Hamilton, this gives me great pleasure! When
you said that you had such a letter, I was sure at last that there was
one thing I could do for you."

32 Lord Newburgh gravely saluted
these new acquaintances, taking quick notice of the lady's charm, and smiling
over his shoulder at Mr. Fairfax's excited manner. He waved his hand in
kind protest to check Peter's officious approach with the tray of glasses.

33 "So you have a letter for me,
from America, Miss Hamilton?" he asked bluntly; and she put it into his
hand.

34 Lord Newburgh gave a curious
look at the carefully written address, and turned the folded sheet to see
the seal. Then he flushed like a man in anger and bit his lip as he looked
at the seal again, and started back as he stood close by the window, so
that they all saw him. Then he tore open Master Sullivan's letter.

35 "It is dated this very last
month!" he cried. "My God! do you mean to tell me that this man is still
alive?"

XXXVI

1 "What man?" asked Mr. Fairfax
and Mr. Davis, with eager curiosity, seeing such astonishment upon his
face; but Lord Newburgh made them no answer until he had read the letter
and carefully folded it again. They saw his hands tremble. He stood looking
blankly at the two men and Miss Hamilton, as if he were in doubt what to
say.

2 "'T is like one risen from the
dead," he told them presently, "but what is written here is proof enough
for me. There are some things which cannot be spoken of even after all
these years, but I can say this: 't was a friend of my poor father, Charles
Ratcliffe, and of his brother, Darwentwater, -- one of their unlucky company
sixty years ago. There are high reasons, and of state too, why beyond this,
I must still keep silence. Great heavens, what a page of history is here!"
and he opened the letter to look at it once more.

3 "Mount Edgecumbe will not believe
me," he said, as if to himself. "Well, at least he knows something of those
old days, too; he will be ready to do what he can for such a petitioner
as this, but we must be careful. I should like to speak with Miss Hamilton
alone, if you will leave us here together, gentlemen," said Lord Newburgh,
with quiet authority; and Mr. Fairfax and the alderman, disappointed, but
with ready courtesy, left them alone in the room.

4 "Do you know the writer of this
letter, madam?" demanded Lord Newburgh; and he was so well aware of the
girl's beauty that, while he spoke, his eyes scarcely left her face. "'T
is true he speaks your name here and with affection, but I cannot think
his history is well known."

5 Mary smiled then, and answered
gently to her lifelong acquaintance with the master and her deep love for
him, but that his early life was a matter of conjecture to those who had
longest been his neighbors. Lord Newburgh saw with approval that she herself
knew something more than she was ready to confess.

6 "He has followed the great Example,
-- he has given his life for his friend," said Lord Newburgh, who showed
himself much moved, when she had finished speaking. "They should know of
this among our friends in France; by God's truth, the King himself should
know but for his present advisers! I must say no more; you can see how
this strange news has shaken me. He asks a thing difficult enough; he has
broken his long silence for no light reason. But Mount Edgecumbe will feel
as I do, -- whatever he asks should be promised him; and Mount Edgecumbe
has power in Plymouth; even with Barrington reigning in the War Office
he is not likely to be refused, though 't is a narrow soul, and we can
give no reasons such as make our own way plain. Your man shan't stay in
the Mill Prison, I can promise you that, Ranger or no Ranger!"

7 Lord Newburgh smiled now at
Miss Hamilton, as if to bring a look of pleasure to so sweet a face, and
she could not but smile back at him.

8 "I shall do my part of this
business at once," he said, rising. "I passed Mount Edgecumbe on my way
here; he'll swear roundly at such a request. He fears that his great oaks
must go down, and his temper is none of the best. The earl is an old sailor,
my dear Miss Hamilton, and has a sailor's good heart, but this will stagger
him well. You say that Madam Wallingford, the young man's mother, is now
in Bristol?" and again he looked at the letter. "Stay; before I speak with
the earl I should like to hear more of these interesting circumstances.
I must say that my own sympathies are mainly with your party in the colonies.
I believe that the King has been made a tool of by some of his ministers.
But I should not say this if you are one of the Loyalist refugees. Why,
no, my dear!" He checked himself, laughing. "'T is a strange confusion.
I cannot think you are for both hound and hare!"

9 It was near an hour later when
Mr. Fairfax fumbled at the latch to see if he might be of service, and
was politely though not too warmly requested to enter. Mr. John Davis had
grown fretful at their long delay, but Miss Hamilton and Lord Newburgh
were still deep in their conversation. The young lady herself had been
close
to her brother's confidence, and was not ignorant of causes in this matter
of the war. Lord Newburgh struck his fist to the table with emphatic disapproval,
as he rose, and told the two gentlemen who entered that he had learned
at last what all England ought to know, -- the true state of affairs in
America.

10 The Virginia Loyalist looked
disturbed, and showed some indifference to this bold announcement.

11 "Come, Fairfax," cried the
guest gayly, "I shall have arguments enough for ye now! I can take the
Patriot side with intelligence, instead of what you have persisted in calling
my ignorant prejudice."

12 "'T is your new teacher, then,
and not your reasoning powers," retorted Fairfax; and they both fell to
laughing, while Mary fell to blushing and looking more charming than before.

13 "Well, Miss Hamilton, and is
your business forwarded? Then we must be off; the day is well squandered
already," said John Davis.

14 "I shall first take Miss Hamilton
to our good housekeeper for a dish of tea before she rides home," protested
the host kindly. "I am grieved that my lady is not here; but our housekeeper,
Mrs. Mullet, can offer the dish of tea, if so stern a Boston Patriot does
not forbid. You will try the Jamaica spirits again yourself, sir? A second
glass is always better than the first, Mr. Alderman!"

15 "I shall speak with my friends
as to these Plymouth affairs, and do my best for you," Lord Newburgh kindly
assured Miss Hamilton, as they parted. "You shall see me in Bristol to-morrow.
Ah, this letter!" and he spoke in a low voice. "It touches my heart to
think that you know so well our sad inheritance. My poor father and poor
Darwentwater! Every one here knows their melancholy fate, their 'sad honors
of the axe and block;' but there were things covered in those days that
are secrets still in England. He speaks of the Newgate supper to me!
. . . 'T was he himself who saved . . . and only a lad" . . . But Mary
could not hear the rest.

16 "I must see you again," he
continued, aloud. "I shall have a thousand questions to put to you, and
many messages for your old Master Sullivan (God bless him!) when you return.
I offer you my friendship for his sake," and Lord Newburgh stood with bared
head beside the horse when Miss Hamilton was mounted. "We have pleasant
Dilston Hall to our home no more these many years; we Ratcliffes are all
done, but at Slindon you shall be very welcome. I shall wait upon Madam
Wallingford to-morrow, and bring her what good comfort I can."

17 The alderman was warmed by
Mr. Fairfax's hospitalities, and rode beside his young guest as proudly
as if he were the lord mayor on high holiday. The streets of Bath were
crowded with idle gentlefolk; 't was a lovely day, and many people of fashion
were taking the air as well as the famous waters. 'T was a fine sight for
a New England girl, and Mary herself was beheld with an admiration that
was by no means silent. Their horses' feet clacked sharply on the cobblestones,
as if eager to shorten the homeward road, and the young rider sat as light
as her heart was, now the errand was done. 'T was a pretty thing, her unconsciousness
of all admiration; she might have been flitting along a shady road under
the pines at home, startling the brown rabbits, and keeping a steady hand
on the black Duke's rein to be ready for sudden freaks. She did not see
that all along by the pump room they were watching her as she passed. She
was taking good news to Bristol, Lord Newburgh had given his word of honor
that Roger Wallingford should be pardoned and set free. Was not his mother
a great lady, and heartily loyal to the Crown? Was there not talk of his
having been suspected of the same principles on board the American privateer?
It must be confessed that Lord Newburgh's face had taken on a look of amused
assurance when these facts were somewhat unwillingly disclosed; they were
the last points in the lieutenant's history which Mary herself would have
willingly consented to use, even as a means of deliverance from captivity,
but they had won an easy promise of freedom.

18 "She's a rebel indeed, but
God bless me, I don't blame her!" laughed the noble lord, as he reflected
upon their conversation. It was not in his loyal heart to forget his heritage.
Whatever might fall out in the matter of those distressed seamen who now
suffered in the Mill Prison, no man could fail of pleasure in doing service
for such sweet eyes as Miss Mary Hamilton's. There were some private reasons
why he could go boldly to ask this great favor, and Lord Mount Edgecumbe
was as good as master of the town of Plymouth, both by land and sea, and
responsible for her concerns.

18A "I'll make him ride
with me to Bristol to-morrow to see these ladies," said Lord Newburgh from
a generous heart. "'T will be a sweet reward, he may take my word for it!"

XXXVII

1 The order for Lieutenant Wallingford's
release was soon in hand, but the long journey across country from Bristol
to Plymouth seemed almost as long as all the time spent in crossing the
sea. From the morning hour when the two elder ladies had watched Miss Hamilton
and her kind old cavalier ride away down the narrow Bristol street, with
a stout man servant well mounted behind them, until the day they were in
sight of Plymouth Hoe, each minute seemed slower than the last. It was
a pretty journey from inn to inn, and the alderman lent himself gayly to
such unwonted holidays, while Mary's heart grew lighter on the way, and
a bright, impatient happiness began to bloom afresh in her cheeks and to
shine in her eyes.

2 They reached Plymouth town at
nightfall, and Mary was for taking fresh horses and riding on to the Mill
Prison. For once her face was dark with anger when the landlord argued
against such haste. He was for their taking supper, and assured the travelers
that not even the mayor of Plymouth himself could knock at the jail gate
by night and think to have it opened.

3 Miss Hamilton turned from such
officious speech with proud indifference, and looked expectantly at her
companion.

4 "It is not every night they
will have a pardon to consider," she said in a low voice to Mr. Davis.
"We carry a letter from my Lord Mount Edgecumbe to the governor of the
prison. We must first get speech with the guard, and then I have no fear."

5 The innkeeper looked provoked
and wagged his head; he had already given orders for a bountiful supper,
and was not going to let a rich Bristol merchant and two persons beside
ride away without paying for it.

6 "We shall not be long away,"
said Mary, pleading. If she had known of the supper, she would have added
that they might bring back another and a hungrier guest than they to sit
at table.

6A The alderman was irresolute;
he was ready to succor a distressed prisoner, being a good Christian; but
he was hungry now, and they had been riding all day at a quicker pace than
he might have followed if alone. His man servant, just come into the inn
parlor to wait for orders, stole a meaning glance at him; and they were
two against one.

7 "No, no, my dear; 't is a good
bit further, and most likely we should have our ride in vain. I know the
rules of such places, from our Bristol laws at home. The governor will
most likely be here in the town. Rest you now, and let us make a good supper,
and start again betimes in the morning." Then, seeing how disappointed
and even determined her face grew, and that she looked very tired, "I am
an old man, you must remember," he added kindly. "I fear that I am well
spent to-night, and can do no more without resting."

8 She was silent then, and crossed
the room to stand by the window. There was a voice in her heart that begged
her to persist, to go on alone, if need be, and not let herself be hindered
in her quest. It was still light out of doors; the long twilight of the
English summer was making this last step of her great adventure a possibility.
She sighed; the voice within still warned and pleaded with her. "Who are
you?" the girl said wonderingly. "Who are you that comes and helps me?
You are not my own thought, but some one wiser than I, who would be my
friend!" It was as if some unseen ministering spirit were face to face
with her, bringing this insistent thought that she hardly dared refuse
to take for guidance.

9 She gazed out of the window.
Sunset clouds were brightening the whole sky; an afterglow was on the moorland
hills eastward above the town. She could hear the roar of the ocean not
far away; there were cheerful voices coming up the street, and the citizens
were all abroad with their comfortable pipes and chatter.

10 "Get me a fresh horse and a
man to follow," said Miss Hamilton, turning again to face the room.

10A The landlord himself was laying
the white cloth for supper. Matthew, their old groom, was stiffly kneeling
and pulling off his master's riding boots, and they all three looked at
her in dismay.

11 "Our own horses are done, miss,"
said Matthew, with decision.

12 "I have none I can let you
to-night from my stable," the landlord seconded. "There was a review to-day
of our raw recruits for America, and I had to empty every stall. The three
best are returned with saddle galls from their clumsy ignorance," he protested
boldly.

13 Mary glanced at Mr. Davis,
and was still unconvinced; but all her determination was lost when she
saw that the old man was really fatigued. Well, it was only one night more,
and she must not insist. Perhaps they were right, and her ride would be
in vain. At least she could send a messenger; and to this proposal the
landlord readily acceded, since, useless or not, it would be a shilling
in his pocket, and a slow boy could carry the letter which the young lady
made such haste to write.

14 She stopped more than once,
with trembling fingers and trembling heart. "Dearest Roger," and the written
words made her blush crimson and hold her face closer to the paper. "Dearest
Roger, I would that I might come to you to-night; but they say it is impossible.
Your mother is in Bristol, and awaits you there. Mr. John Davis has brought
me hither to the Crown Inn. In the morning we shall open the prison door
for you. Oh, my dear Roger, to think that I shall see you at last!"

15 "When can we have the answer
back?" she asked; and the landlord told her, smiling, that it would be
very late, if indeed there were any answer at all, and reminded her, with
insolent patience, that he had told her they would not open their prison
gates, for Lords or Commons, to any one who came by night.

16 "You may send the answer by
one of your maids to the lady's room," commanded the Bristol magnate, in
a tone that chased the servile smile from the innkeeper's face.

17 When Mary waked, the morning
sun was pouring in at her window, and there was no word of any answer.
Old Matthew had spoken with the young messenger, and brought word that
he had given the letter to one of the watch by the gate, who had taken
the money, and promised to do his best to put the message into Mr. Wallingford's
hands that night when they changed guard.

18 "We might have been here last
night; why, 't is but a step!" said John Davis, as they drew near the dismal
prison next morning; but his young companion made no answer. He could not
guess what happy fear mingled with her glad anticipation now, nor how her
certainties and apprehensions were battling with each other.

19 Matthew's own horse and another
that he led for Mr. Wallingford were weighted with provisions, so that
he trudged afoot alongside. It was easy to hear in Plymouth town how the
American prisoners lacked such things, and yet Mary could hardly wait now
to make the generous purchase which she had earlier planned. She could
not know all that Matthew had learned, and told his master in whispers
in the stable yard.

20 As they rode nearer to the
prison a flaw of wind brought toward them all the horrible odors of the
crowded place, like a warning of the distress and misery within. Though
it was so early, there were many persons standing outside the gates: some
of them were jeering at the sad spectacle, and some talking in a friendly
way with the men who stood within. Happily, it was not only a few compassionate
Americans who had posted themselves here to give what they could of food
and succor, but among the Plymouth folk themselves many a heart was wrung
with pity, and one poor old body had toiled out of the town with a basket
of food to smuggle through the bars; cakes and biscuit of a humble sort
enough, but well flavored with love. Mary saw her take thread and needles
out of her pocket, and sit down on the ground to mend some poor rags of
clothing. "My own lad went for a sailor," she said, when they thanked her
and called her "mother."

21 There was long delay; the guards
pushed back the crowd again and again; one must stand close to see the
sights within. All at once there was a cry and scuffling among the idlers,
as some soldiers came riding up, one of them bringing an old horse with
a man thrown across the saddle and tied down. As they loosed him he slid
heavily to the ground, as if he were dead, and the spectators closed about
him.

22 Mary Hamilton could only look
on in horror and apprehension. Her companion was in the midst of the pushing
crowd.

23 "'T was a prisoner who escaped
last night and has been retaken," he said hastily, as he returned to her
side. "You may stay here with Matthew, my dear, while I take our letters
and go in. I see that it is no place for you; they are like wild beasts."

24 "I must go, too," said Mary;
"you will not forbid me now. Good heavens!" she cried aloud. "Now that
they are away from the gate I can see within. Oh, the poor prisoners! Oh,
I cannot bear their sick faces! They are starving, sir! These must be the
men who had the fever you told me of. Let us go in at once. I wish we had
brought more wine and food to these poor fellows!" she cried again, and
was in a passion of pity and terror at the sight.

25 "Let us go in! Let us go in!"
she begged. "Oh, you forget that they are my own countrymen! I cannot wait!"

26 The guard now returned with
a message, and the alderman gave his bridle to the groom. Mary was afoot
sooner than he, and had run to the gate, pushing her way among the idle
sightseers to the heavy grating. They were calling from both sides of the
gate to old Matthew, who was standing with the horses, to come up and give
them what he had brought. Mary Hamilton felt as if she were among wolves:
they did not listen; they did not wait to find what she had to say. "For
love of God, give me a shilling for a little 'baccy, my lady," said one
voice in her ear. "I'll fetch them the 'baccy from the town, poor boys;
they lack it most of anything, and he'll drink the money!" protested an
old beggar woman at her side. "Go in? They'll let no ladies in!" and she
gave a queer laugh. "And if you're in, all you'll pray for is to be out
again and forget the sight."

27 The governor was in his room,
which had a small grated window toward the prison yard; but there was a
curtain before it, and he looked up anxiously to see if this were close
drawn as his early guests came in. This task of jailer was a terrible duty
for any man, and he swore under his breath at Lord Mount Edgecumbe for
interfering with what at best was an impossible piece of business. If he
had seen to it that they had decent supplies, and hanged a score of their
purveyors and contractors, now, or had blown the whole rotten place into
the air with his fleet guns, 't were a better kindness!

28 The clerk stood waiting for
orders.

29 "Show them in, then, these
people," he grumbled, and made a feint of being busy with some papers as
Miss Hamilton and her escort entered. The governor saw at once that the
honorable Mr. Davis was a man of consequence.

30 "My Lord Mount Edgecumbe writes
me that you would make inquiries for a prisoner here," said the old soldier,
less roughly because the second guest proved to be a lady and most fair
to see. She looked very pale, and was watching him with angry eyes. As
she had crossed the prison yard, she had seen fewer miseries because her
tears had blinded her. There had been one imploring voice calling her by
her own name. "Stop, Miss Hamilton, stop, for God's sake!" some one had
cried; but the guard had kept the poor prisoners off, and an attendant
hurried her along by force when she would gladly have lingered. The horror
of it all was too much for her; it was the first time she had ever been
in a jail.

31 "I am afraid of your sad disappointment,
madam," said the governor of the prison. "You wished to see Lieutenant
Roger Wallingford. I grieve to say" -- He spoke kindly, but looked toward
Mary and stopped, and then, sighing heavily, turned his eyes toward Mr.
Davis with a kind of relief.

32 "He is not dead, I hope, sir?"
asked the old man, for Mary could not speak. "We have the order for his
release."

33 "No, he is not dead to any
certain knowledge," explained the governor, more slowly than before, "but
he was one of a party that made their escape from this prison last night;
't was through one of their silly tunnels that they dig. They have some
of them been shot down, and one, I hear, has just been taken and brought
in alive; but Wallingford's name is not among any of these." He turned
to some papers, and then went to the grated window and looked out, but
pulled the curtain across it impatiently as he came away.

33A "You brought his pardon?"
the governor asked brusquely. "I should think he would be the last man
for a pardon. Why, he was with Paul Jones, sir; but a very decent fellow,
a gentleman, they tell me. I did not see him; I am not long here. This
young lady had best go back to the inn," and he stole a look at Mary, who
sat in despairing silence. A strange flush had replaced her first pallor.
She had thought but a moment before that she should soon look into Roger
Wallingford's face and tell him that he was free. On the end of the governor's
writing table lay the note she had written with such a happy heart only
the night before.

XXXVIII

1 The town of Bristol was crowded
with Loyalist refugees: some who had fled the colonies for honest love
of their King, and some who believed that when the King's troops had put
down the rebellion they should be well rewarded for holding to his cause.
They were most of them cut off from what estates they may have had, and
were begging for pensions from a government that seemed cruelly indifferent.
Their sad faces fairly shadowed the Bristol streets, while many of them
idled the day through, discussing their prospects with one another, and
killing time that might have been lived to some profit. The disappointment
of their hope was unexpected, and an England that showed them neither sympathy
nor honor when they landed on her shores, glowing with self-sacrifice,
was but a sad astonishment. England, their own mother country, seemed fallen
into a querulous dotage, with her King's ministers so pompous in their
stupid ignorance and self-consequence, and her best statesmen fighting
hard to be heard. It was an age of gamester heroes and of reckless living;
a poor page of English history was unfolded before their wistful eyes.
These honest Loyalists were made to know the mortified feelings of country
gentlefolk come unheralded to a city house that was busy with its splendors
on a feast day, and impatient of what was inopportune. Worse than this,
though Judge Curwen and other loyal Americans of his company were still
hopeful of consideration, and of being warmly received by England as her
own true children, they were oftener held guilty of the vexing behavior
of their brothers, those rebels against English authority whom they had
left behind.

1A Something to Mary's wonder,
Madam Wallingford would have few of them to friend. She was too great a
person at home to consent even now to any social familiarity on the score
of political sympathies. She was known to have brought much money, and
it was made easy for her to share this with one and another distressed
acquaintance or friend's friend; but while this was done with generosity,
she showed herself more and more impatient of their arguments, even of
those plaints which were always ready, and the story of such grievances
as had led them into exile.

2 "I am too ill and sad to listen
to these things," she said often, even to her friends the Pepperrells,
who came from London to visit her. "I only know my country's troubles through
my own sorrow." She begged them at last to find poor Roger's grave, so
she might go there to pray for him; 't was all that she could do. "Oh no,"
she would say mournfully to those who looked for her assent to their own
views of the great situation, "do not expect me to understand you. I am
only a mother, and all my life is done!"

3 The Bristol streets were busy
as Miss Hamilton came walking through the town, and the bells were ringing
for a holiday. She was deep in anxious thought, and kept steadily on her
way toward the abbey church, without even a glance at a tradesman's window
or a look at the people she met. Life was filled with new anxieties. Since
the day when they had left Plymouth they could find no trace of Roger Wallingford,
beyond the certainty that he had made his escape with some fellow prisoners
through a tunnel which they had been for many days digging under the prison
wall. There had been a light near the opening in the field outside, and
a guard set, but six men had gone out of the narrow hole and crawled away.
It was a windy night, and the lantern light and shadows wavered on the
ground to hide them. Two were shot and killed, but two were captured and
brought back at once, while another was shot and got away, stumbling and
falling often, and bleeding like a slaughtered creature, as the watch could
see next morning by daylight. This poor fellow had escaped to the moors;
there was a pool of blood in a place where he must have hidden for some
hours among the furze bushes. There was so large a bounty paid for any
escaped traitors and felons like these, who might be brought back alive
to the Mill Prison, that the poor moorland folk back of Plymouth were ever
on the quest. Roger Wallingford might have been that bleeding man. They
would not dare to keep together; his companion might have left him dying
or dead somewhere in the lonely waste country that stretched miles away
above the prison. His fate was sure if he should be captured; he was not
a man to yield his life too easily. There were some carefully worded notices
posted, -- broadsides which might easily reach the eyes of such fugitives
if they ventured into any of the Devon towns near by; but they might well
have starved to death by this time in the deserts of Dartmoor. One sailor
beside the lieutenant had succeeded in making his escape.

4 Mary Hamilton had left her lady
pale and in tears that morning, and all her affectionate solicitude had
been in vain.

5 There was some relief in finding
herself afoot in the fresh air. For the first time she wondered if they
must yield all their hopes and think of going home. It must be so if they
should come to know that Roger was really dead, and her heart stopped as
if with a sudden shock. Alas, next moment she remembered that for poor
Madam Wallingford there was no safe return; her son was not yet disproven
of Tory crimes. If there were any chance of sailing, the poor lady was
far too ill and feeble in these last days. The summer, the little that
was left of it, looked long and dreary; the days were already growing short.
There had not come a word from home since they sailed.

6 There was no longer much use
in riding abroad on futile quests, and in these last days most persons
had ceased to ask if there were any news of the lieutenant. Week after
week had gone by, and his mother's proud courage was gone, while her bodily
strength was fast failing. Lord Newburgh and Mr. Fairfax, even the great
Lord Mount Edgecumbe himself, had shown very great kindness in so difficult
a matter, and Mary never let them go away unthanked for any favors which
it could only be a happiness for any man to bestow. The gift and spell
of beauty were always hers, and a heart that was always ready to show both
gratitude and affection. She might not speak these things, but she was
instant in giving the sweetest recognition to the smallest service that
she might discover.

7 The abbey church of Augustine
was cool and dim as Mary Hamilton went in, with a drooping head and a heavy
heart. Her courage had never before seemed so utterly to fail. She had
passed two forlorn Royalists at the gatehouse who were talking of their
pensions, and heard one of them say, "If I were safe home again I'd never
leave it, principles or no principles!" and the words rang dull and heavy
in her ears. She sat down on an old stone bench in the side aisle; the
light came sifting down to the worn stone pavement, but she was in shadow,
behind a great pillar that stood like a monstrous tree to hold the lofty
roof.

7A There was no one in sight.
The lonely girl looked up at a familiar old Jacobean monument on the wall,
with the primly ruffed father and mother kneeling side by side with clasped
hands, and their children kneeling in a row behind them down to the very
least, in a pious little succession. They were all together there in comfortable
safety, and many ancient mural tablets covered the walls about them with
the names and virtues of soldiers and sailors, priests and noblemen, and
gallant gentlemen of Old England with their children and their good wives.

8 "They have all won through,"
whispered Mary to herself. "They have all fought the long battle and have
carried care like me, and they have all won through. I shall not be a coward,
either," and her young heart rose; but still the tears kept coming, and
she sat bowed in the shadow and could not lift her head, which until lately
had faced the sun like a flower. She sat there, at last, not thinking of
her present troubles, but of home: of old Peggy, and the young maids who
often sang at their pleasant work; the great river at full tide, with its
wooded shores and all its points and bays; the fishing weirs in the distance;
the slow, swaying flight of the eagles and the straight course of the herons
overhead. She thought of the large, quiet house facing southward, and its
rows of elms, and the slender poplars going down the garden terraces; she
even heard the drone of the river falls; she saw the house standing empty,
the wide doors all shut to their old hospitality. A sense of awful distance
fell upon her heart. The responsibility and hopelessness of her errand
were too heavy on her young heart. She covered her face and bent still
lower, but she could not stop her tears.

9 There came the sound of footsteps
up the nave of the abbey: it might be the old verger in his rusty gown,
or some sightseer stopping here and there to read an inscription. Poor
Mary's tears would have their way: to one of her deep nature weeping was
sad enough in itself; to cry for sorrow's sake was no common sorrow. She
was safe in her dim corner, and thought little of being seen; she was only
a poor girl in sore trouble, with her head sunk in her hands, who could
not in any way concern a stranger. The wandering footsteps stopped near
by, instead of going on and entering the choir. She noticed then, in a
dull way, the light echo of their sound among the arches overhead.

10 "My God!" said a man's voice,
as if in great dismay.

11 The speaker stepped quickly
to Mary's side, and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. She looked up
into the face of Captain Paul Jones of the Ranger.

XXXIX

1 The captain's eyes were full
of tears; 't was no sign that he lacked manliness. To find Miss Hamilton
in England, to find her alone and in piteous despair, was the opportunity
of his own heart. He could not but be startled into wondering silence;
the event was too astonishing even for one so equal to emergencies; but
he at once stood ready, with beating heart and sure sense of a man's abundant
strength, to shelter her and to fight against the thing that troubled her,
whatever it might be. Presently he seated himself by Mary's side, and took
her hand in his and held it fast, still without speaking. She was the better
for such friendliness, and yet wept the more for his very sympathy.

2 The captain waited until her
passion of tears had spent itself. It was a pity she could not watch his
compassionate face; all that was best and kindest in the man was there
to see, with a grave look born of conflict and many grievous disappointments.
To see Paul Jones now, one could not but believe him capable of the sternest
self-command; he had at least the unassuming and quiet pride of a man who
knows no master save himself. His eyes were full of womanly tenderness
as he looked down at the pathetic bowed head beside him. Next moment they
had a keen brightness as he caught sight of a tablet on the abbey wall
to some Bristol hero long dead, -- the gallant servant, through many perils
by sea and land, of Anne his Queen: 't was a record that the captain's
heart could perfectly understand.

3 "Calm yourself now, my dearest
girl," he said at last, with gentle authority. "I must not stay long beside
you; I am always in danger here. I was not unknown in Bristol as a younger
man."

4 Mary lifted her head; for a
moment the sight of his face helped to put her own miseries quite out of
mind. Her ready sympathy was quickly enough roused when she saw how Paul
Jones had changed. He had grown much older; years might have passed instead
of months since that last evening he had spent in America, when she had
seen him go away with his men by moonlight down the river. More than ever
now he might easily win the admiration of a woman's heart! She had half
forgotten the charm of his voice, the simple directness of his eyes and
their strange light, with something in his behavior that men called arrogance
and willful rivalry, and women recognized as a natural royalty and irresistible,
compelling power. To men he was too imperious, to women all gentleness
and courtesy.

5 "You are in disguise!" she exclaimed,
amazed at his courage. "How do you dare, even you, to be here in Bristol
in broad day?" and she found herself smiling, in spite of her unchecked
tears. The captain held a rough woolen cap in his hand; he was dressed
in that poor garb of the hungry Spanish sailor of Quiberon, which had so
often done him good service.

6 "Tell me what has brought you
here," he answered her. "That is by far the greatest wonder. I am no fit
figure to sit beside you, but 't is the hand of God that has brought us
here together. Heaven forbid that you should ever shed such bitter tears
again!" he said devoutly, and sat gazing at her like a man in a day dream.

7 "Sometimes God wills that we
shall be sorry-hearted; but when he sends the comfort of a friend, God
himself can do no more," answered the girl, and there fell a silence between
them. There was a sparrow flying to and fro among the pillars, and chirping
gayly under the high roof, -- a tiny far-fallen note, and full of busy
cheer. The late summer sunshine lay along the floor of that ancient house
of God where Mary and the captain sat alone together, and there seemed
to be no other soul in the place.

8 Her face was shining brighter
and brighter; at last, at last she could know the truth, and hear what
had happened at Whitehaven, and ask for help where help could be surely
given.

9 "But why are you here? You must
indeed be bold, my-lord captain!" she ventured again, in something very
like the old gay manner that he knew; yet she still looked very white,
except for her tear-stained eyes. "There were new tales of your seafaring
told in the town only yesterday. I believe they are expecting you in every
corner of England at once, and every flock of their shipping is dreading
a sight of the Sea Wolf."

10 "I do my own errands, -- that
is all," replied the captain soberly. "My poor Ranger is lying now in the
port of Brest. I am much hampered by enemies, but I shall presently break
their nets. . . . I was for a look at their shipping here, and how well
they can defend it. There is an able, well-manned fish boat out of Roscoff,
on the Breton coast, which serves me well on these expeditions. I have
a plan, later, for doing great mischief to their Baltic fleet. I had to
bring with me the worst of my ship's company; 't is my only discomfort,"
said Paul Jones, with bitterness. "I have suffered far too much," and he
sighed heavily and changed his tone. "I believe now that God's providence
has brought me to your side; such happiness as this makes up for everything.
You remember that I have been a sailor all my life," he continued, as if
he could not trust himself to speak with true feeling. "I have been acquainted
since childhood with these English ports."

11 "You did not know that I had
come to Bristol?" said Mary. "Oh yes, we have been here these many weeks
now," and she also sighed.

12 "How should I know?" asked
Paul Jones impatiently. "I am overwhelmed by such an amazing discovery.
I could burst into tears; I am near to being unmanned, though you do not
suspect it. Think, dear, think what it is to me! I have no discretion,
either, when I babble my most secret affairs aloud, and hardly know what
I am saying. I must leave you in a few short moments. What has brought
you here? Tell me the truth, and how I may safely manage to see you once
again. If you were only in France, with my dear ladies there! They would
love and cherish you with all their kind hearts.
'T is the Duchess of Chartres who has been my good
angel since I came to France, and another most exquisite being whom I first
met at her house, -- a royal princess, too. Oh, I have much to tell you!
Their generous friendship and perfect sympathy alone have kept me from
sinking down. I have suffered unbelievable torture from the jealousy and
ignorance of men who should have known their business better, and given
me every aid."

13 "I am thankful you have such
friends as these ladies," said Mary, with great sweetness. "I am sure that
you also have been a friend to them. Some knowledge of your difficulties
had reached us before we left home; but, as you know, intercourse is now
much interrupted, and we were often uncertain of what had passed at such
a distance. We hear nothing from home, either," she added mournfully. "We
are in great distress of mind; you could see that I was not very cheerful.
. . . I fear in my heart that poor Madam Wallingford will die."

14 "Madam Wallingford!" repeated
the captain. "You cannot mean that she is here!" he exclaimed, with blank
astonishment. His tone was full of reproach, and even resentment. "Poor
lady! I own that I have had her in my thoughts, and could not but pity
her natural distress," he added, with some restraint, and then burst forth
into excited speech: "There is no need that they should make a tool of
you, -- you who are a Patriot and Hamilton's own sister! This is arrant
foolishness!"

15 He sprang to his feet, and
stood before Miss Hamilton, with his eyes fixed angrily upon her face.
"If I could tell you everything! Oh, I am outdone with this!" he cried,
with a gesture of contempt.

16 "Captain Paul Jones," she said,
rising quickly to confront him, "I beg you to tell me everything. I cannot
believe that Roger Wallingford is a traitor, and I love his mother almost
as if she were my own. I came to England with her of my own wish and free
will, and because it was my right to come. Will you tell me plainly what
has happened, and why you do not take his part?"

17 The captain's quick change
from such deep sympathy as he had shown for her tears to a complete scorn
of their cause could only give a sad shock to Mary Hamilton's heart. He
was no helper, after all. There came a dizzy bewilderment like a veil over
her mind; it seemed as if she felt the final blow of Fate. She had not
known how far she had spent her strength, or how her very homesickness
had weakened her that day.

18 "I fear it is true enough that
he betrayed us at Whitehaven," said Paul Jones slowly, and not unmindful
of her piteous look. "I could not bring myself to doubt him at first; indeed,
I was all for him. I believe that I trusted him above every man on board.
I was his champion until I found he had been meddling with my papers, --
my most secret dispatches, too; yes, I have proof of this! And since then
some of the stolen pages have found their way into our enemies' hands.
He has not only betrayed me, but his country too; and worst of all in men's
eyes, he has sinned against the code of honor. Yet there is one thing I
will and must remember: 't is never the meanest men who serve their chosen
cause as spies. The pity is that where success may be illustrious, the
business asks completest sacrifice, and failure is the blackest disgrace.
'T is Wallingford's reward. I loved him once, and now I could stand at
the gallows and see him hanged! Perhaps he would say that he acted from
high motives, -- 't is ever a spy's excuse; but I trusted him, and he would
have ruined me."

19 "I do not believe that he is
guilty," declared Mary Hamilton, with perfect calmness, though she had
drawn back in horror as she heard the last words and saw such blazing anger
in Paul Jones's eyes. "You must look elsewhere for your enemy," she insisted,
-- "for some other man whose character would not forbid such acts as these.
If Roger Wallingford has broken his oath of allegiance, my faith in character
is done; but I have known him all my life, and I can answer for him. Believe
me, there is some mistake." Her eyes did not fall; as the captain held
them straight and answerable with his own she met the challenge of his
look, and there came a beautiful glow of pity and gentleness upon her face.

20 The captain gave a long sigh.

21 "I am sure that you are mistaken,"
she said again, quietly, since he did not speak. "We are now in great trouble,
and even despair, about Mr. Wallingford, and have been able to get no word
from him. We have his pardon in hand; 't would make you wonder if I told
you how it came to us. Your lieutenant was left most cruelly wounded on
the shore at Whitehaven, and was like to die on the long journey to Plymouth
jail where they sent him. How he has lived through all his sufferings I
do not know. I have seen the Mill Prison, myself; they would not even let
us speak with those who knew him among our poor captives. The night before
we reached the prison he had escaped; there were some men shot down who
were of his party. We can get no trace of him at all. Whether he is dead
on the great moor, or still alive and wandering in distress, no one can
tell. This does not look as if he were a spy for England; it were easy
to give himself up, and to prove such a simple thing, if only to be spared
such misery. I am afraid that his mother will soon fade out of life, now
that, after all these weeks, she believes him dead. She thought he would
return with us, when she saw us ride away to Plymouth, and the disappointment
was more than she could bear."

22 The bitter memory of that morning
at the Mill Prison was like a sword in Mary's heart, and she stopped; she
had spoken quickly, and was now trembling from head to foot. "I thought,
when I saw your face, that you would know how to help us find him," she
said sorrowfully, under her breath.

23 "If I have been wrong," exclaimed
the captain, "if I have been wrong, I shall give my life to make amends!
But all the proofs were there. I even found a bit of one of my own papers
among his effects, -- 't was in a book he had been reading. But I hid the
matter from every one on board; I could not bear they should know it. Dickson's
word was their mainstay at first; but that counted worse than nothing to
me, till there were other matters which fully upheld his account."

24 "Dickson has always been a
man mistrusted and reproached," protested Miss Hamilton, with indignation.
"There is a man for you whose character would not forbid such treachery!
You must know, too, that he has a deep hatred for the Wallingfords, and
would spare no pains to revenge himself."

25 The captain stood doubtful
and dismayed. "I have gone over this sad matter by day and by night," he
said; "I do not see where I could be mistaken. I went to the bottom of
my evidence without regard to Dickson, and I found proof enough. I hate
that man, and distrust him, yet I can find little fault with his service
on the ship; and when I have been surest of catching him in a lie, he always
proves to have told the exact truth, and wears a martyr's air, and is full
of his cursed cant and talk of piety. Alas, I know not what can be done
at this late day."

26 "Did you never think that Dickson
could put many a proof like your bit of paper where your eyes alone could
fall upon it?" asked Mary. "I remember well that he has tried more than
once to cast blame upon others when he himself was the sinner. He has plenty
of ability; 't is his use of it that one may always fear."

27 The captain moved restlessly,
as if conscious of her accusation. "Many believed Wallingford to be a Tory
on the ship," he answered. "They were jealous and suspicious of his presence;
but Dickson, who has warped Simpson's honest mind against me, may also
have set his energies to this. If we could only find Wallingford! If we
could only hear his own story of that night! In all this time he should
have sent some word to me. If I were free, I'd soon know what they learned
from him in the prison; he must have spoken openly with some of the Portsmouth
men who are there. What can we do?" the speaker ended, in a different tone
altogether, making a direct appeal to Mary. "If I have fallen a dupe to
such a man as Dickson in this matter, I shall never recover from the shame.
You would never forgive me. Alas, how can I ask the question that my heart
prompts! You are most unhappy," said Paul Jones, with exquisite compassion.
"Is it because of Wallingford alone? Oh, Mary, is there no hope for me?
You have had my letters? You cannot but remember how we parted!"

28 She looked at him imploringly.

29 "Tell me," said the captain.
"I must ask a question that is very hard for me. I believe that you love
this unfortunate officer, and desire his safety beyond everything else.
Is it not true?"

30 Mary waited only a moment before
she spoke.

31 "Yes, it is true," she said
then. "I know now that we have always belonged to each other."

32 "Alas for my own happiness!"
said the captain, looking at her. "I thought when we parted that last night"
-- He groaned, his words faltering. "Oh that I had only spoken! Glory has
been a jealous mistress to me, and I dared not speak; I feared 't would
cost me all her favor, if my thoughts were all for you. It seems a lifetime
ago. I could throw my hope of glory down at your feet now, if it were any
use. I can do nothing without love. Oh, Mary, must you tell me that it
is too late?"

33 The captain's voice made poignant
outcry to the listener's heart. The air seemed to quiver in strange waves,
and the walls of the abbey seemed to sway unsteadily. The strong, determined
soul before her was pleading for an impossible happiness. Even better than
he could know, she knew that he lacked a woman's constant love and upholding,
and that, with all his noble powers, his life tended toward ruin and disappointment.
She stood there, white and wistful; her compassionate heart was shaken
with pity for his loneliness.

34 There was a change on the man's
dark face; he took one step toward her, and then was conscious of a strange
separation between them. Mary did not move, she did not speak; she stood
there as a ghost might stand by night to pity the troubles of men. She
knew, with a woman's foresight, the difference it would make if she could
only stand with love and patience by his side.

35 "There must be some one to
love you as it is in your heart to love," she told him then. "God bless
you and give you such a happiness! You are sure to find each other in this
sad world. I know you will! I know you will!"

36 One of the great bells began
to ring in the tower above, and its vibrations jarred her strangely; she
could hardly hinder herself now from a new outburst of tears, and could
not think clearly any more, and was trembling with weakness.

37 "I must go home if I can,"
she whispered, but her voice was very low. "I cannot get home alone --
No, no, I must not let you be so kind!"

38 He placed her gently on the
stone bench, and she leaned back heavily with his arm about her, thankful
for some protecting affection in her brief bewilderment. She could not
but hear his pitying, endearing words as her faintness passed; the poor
girl was so breathless and weak that she could only throw herself upon
his mercy. There was even an unexpected comfort in his presence, -- she
had been so much alone with strangers; and she forgot everything save that
he was a friend of her happier days. And as for the captain, he had held
her in his arms, she had turned to him with touching readiness in her distress;
nothing could ever rob his heart of the remembrance.

39 He watched her with solicitude
as her color came back, and lingered until he saw that she was herself
again. They must part quickly, for he could not venture to be seen with
her in the open streets.

40 "You have convinced me that
I may have been wrong about Wallingford," he said impulsively. "I shall
now do my best to aid you and to search the matter out. I shall see you
again. Your happiness will always be very dear to me. I can but thank Heaven
for our being here together, though I have only added something to your
pain. Perhaps these troubles may not be far from their solution, and I
shall see you soon in happier hours."

41 He kissed her hand and let
it go; his old hope went with it; there must be a quick ending now. A man
must always resent pity for himself, but his heart was full of tenderest
pity for this overburdened girl. There had been few moments of any sort
of weakness in all the course of her long bravery, -- he was sure enough
of that, -- and only loved her the more. She had been the first to show
him some higher things: 't was not alone her charm, but her character,
her great power of affection, her perfect friendship, that would make him
a nobler lover to his life's end.

42 She watched him as he went
away down the nave toward the open door; the poverty of such disguise and
the poor sailor's threadbare dress could not hide a familiar figure, but
he was alert no more, and even drooped a little as he stood for one moment
in the doorway. He did not once look back; there were people in the church
now, and his eyes were bent upon the ground. Then he lifted his head with
all the spirit that belonged to him, stepped out boldly from the shadow
into the bright daylight beyond, and was gone.

43 The old verger crossed over
to speak with Mary; he had learned to know her by sight, for she came often
to the abbey church, and guessed that she might be one of the exiles from
America.

44 "'T was some poor sailor begging,
I misdoubt. There's a sight o' beggars stranded in the town. I hope he
would not make bold to vex you, my lady?" asked the dim-eyed old man, fumbling
his snuffbox with trembling hands. "I fell asleep in the chapter room."

45 "'T was some one I had known
at home," Miss Hamilton answered. "He is a good man," and she smiled a
little as she spoke. It would be so easy to cause a consternation in the
town. Her head was steady now, but she still sat where the captain had
left her.

46 "'T is a beautiful monyment,
-- that one," said the verger, pointing up to the kneeling figures in their
prim ruffs. "'T is as beautiful a monyment as any here. I've made bold
to notice how you often sits here to view it. Some o' your Ameriky folks
was obsarvin' as their forbears was all buried in this abbey in ancient
times; 't would be sure to make the owd place a bit homely."

47 The bells were still chiming,
and there were worshipers coming in. Mary Hamilton slipped away, lest she
should meet some acquaintance; she felt herself shaken as if by a tempest.
Paul Jones had gone into fresh danger when he left her side; his life was
spent among risks and chances. She might have been gentler to him, and
sent him away better comforted.

48 She walked slowly, and stood
still once in the street, startled by the remembrance of her frank confession
of love; the warm color rushed to her pale face. To have told the captain,
when she had never told Roger himself, or his mother, or any but her own
heart! Yet all her sorrows were lightened by these unconsidered words:
the whole world might hear them now; they were no secret any more.

49 There were busy groups of people
about the taverns and tobacco shops, as if some new excitement were in
the air; it might be that there was news from America. As Mary passed,
she heard one man shout to another that John Paul Jones, the pirate, had
been seen the day before in Bristol itself. An old sailor, just landed
from a long voyage at sea, had known him as he passed. There was word,
too, that the Ranger had lately been sighted again off Plymouth, and had
taken two prizes in the very teeth of the King's fleet.

Note for Atlantic text.

Duchess of Chartres:
The Atlantic text is inconsistent in using "of" and "de" with the
names of the Duke and Duchess of / de Chartres. [ Back ]